


You Get Stronger

by gwennolmarie



Series: In The Event of Regretful Actions [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-17 23:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16983954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwennolmarie/pseuds/gwennolmarie
Summary: Sometimes... You lose it, the will that is meant to drive you on. The desire to exist.Arthur loses it.Dutch drives it back into him.





	You Get Stronger

Arthur should really know better by now.  
  
He should know _better._  
  
Their last job had gone tits up in the worst way, and all signs pointed to it being Arthur’s fault.  
  
Arthur had gotten the intel… and it’d been sour. Dutch had warned him against it but it was ultimately Arthur who led the charge. They almost lost John, and not for the first time the kid was bed-ridden, fever drunk with infected shrapnel wounds. Arthur might have a bone or fifty to pick with the kid but… Marston didn’t deserve this.  
  
Arthur sat at the far edge of their current camp, staring at the stars, so bright and bountiful tonight. When John was a kid he refused to let Arthur be, when either of them couldn’t sleep, would force the elder to lay out in the open with him, pointing out constellations, making them up when he couldn’t recall anymore.  
  
“Arthur,” Dutch’s voice calls, and it’s angry, angrier than Arthur has heard in a long time.  
  
Arthur obediently gets up and follows Dutch to the man’s tent, pointedly not looking at John’s barely-conscious body as they pass.  
  
“Sit down,” Dutch says, barely a hiss. Arthur sits on one of the crates, head bowed, hands clenched in fists so tight the ache radiates up his forearms.  
  
Dutch paces in front of him, fingers twitching at his sides, making little, aborted gestures. Arthur knows the man is making plans in his head… rehearsing his speech. Every moment that passes sees the expression on Dutch’s handsome face getting angrier, more disappointed. Dutch has only hit Arthur in punishment once when he’d been a late teen and had gotten cocky with Dutch’s favorite pistol.  
  
That poor horse hadn’t made it through the night. Dutch had dragged him away from camp and shoved him to his knees, cracking him hard across the cheek. The older man had spent the next two weeks sucking up, trying to apologize, guilt and regret like a cloud hung over him. Arthur forgave him almost immediately but had relished in the attention.  
  
This isn’t like that, but Arthur…  
  
Arthur wants to be hit. He wants Dutch’s hand around his throat, that prized pistol in his mouth. He deserves it, whatever eternal damnation awaits him. Eliza and Isaac?... Mary? He’d doomed them and himself just by existing. Doomed them with whatever the curse that lingered around him, snuck out like tendrils to drag down everyone he loved.    
  
Dutch stops in front of him and Arthur flinches from the force of the action. He stares at Dutch’s boots, tracing his eyes over the scuffs and scrapes.  
  
“Arthur,” Dutch growls.  
  
“Yes, Sir?”  
  
“Wanna explain yourself?”  
  
Arthur presses his lips together hard. Shakes his head.  
  
“You sure?”  
  
Arthur nods.  
  
“Then… Get out.” Dutch says and Arthur’s head lifts so fast he hears a crack.  
  
“Dutch?” Arthur asks, fear coloring his voice.  
  
“Get out, Arthur, take a hike.” Dutch turns away and moves to his desk in the tent. Arthur’s breathing quickens. He stands and takes a step towards his leader, his everything. Dutch’s head cocks to the side and the danger signals firing in his brain almost give him pause.  
  
He takes another step and before he can even blink Dutch has a knife at the hollow between Arthur’s collar bones. Arthur freezes and he and Dutch stare at each other.  
  
“Go.” Dutch snarls.  
  
“I-”  
  
“No, Morgan, _go_ .”  
  
Arthur reaches his hand up and closes it around Dutch’s wrist, he leans his weight into the dagger and closes his eyes.  
  
“Do it, Dutch,” Arthur whispers, desperate.  
  
The air around them is icy regardless of the summer mug. Dutch’s hand twitches. The knife presses harder for a moment then Dutch lets it fall to the grass below.  
  
Arthur doesn’t open his eyes.  
  
“What the hell, Arthur, is wrong with you?” Dutch’s voice is soft and strained, full of disbelief.

  
Arthur feels shame fill him. It’s familiar, the feeling you get when you’re caught out, or you fail. You lose your inhibitions in the moment, when you think you’ll be gone the next. Arthur lets go of Dutch but Dutch catches his hand as it falls. He squeezes like he’s trying to break bones.  
  
Arthur inhales sharply, mentally wills Dutch to tighten his grip.  
  
He doesn’t.  
  
“You… If I send you out to cool your head… Are you gonna…?” Dutch cuts off like he doesn’t want to finish the thought. Arthur’s confused.  
  
“Cool my head?” He asks, voice scratchy and trembling. Dutch lets go of his hand and grabs Arthur’s chin, mercilessly.  
  
“You thought I was kicking you out?”  
  
“You should.”  
  
“You made a mistake, Arthur.”  
  
“Dutch,” Arthur finally meets the older man’s sharp gaze, “I’m _tired_ .” Dutch’s brows furrow in such abrupt sorrow, Arthur swallows hard. He isn’t worth it, the sorrow, the pity.  
  
“Go lay down,” Dutch says, but when Arthur moves to leave the tent he’s grabbed by the arms and roughly shoved back into the corner, where Dutch’s cot is. Arthur’s too large of a man to feel as small as he does while Dutch manhandles him to sit, ripping off the younger man’s boots and getting him under the blanket. Every action is stiff, from both of them. Arthur’s fingers seek out the cut at the base of his throat, digs his fingernail into the barely-bleeding wound.  
  
Dutch lingers. Staring down at Arthur who stares blankly at the ground. Dutch’s fingers brush over the younger man’s forehead, guiding greasy hair behind an ear.  
  
“You are worth _every_ risk, Arthur. No matter how many lessons, no matter the consequences, you learn, _you get stronger_ .”  
  
An almost-sob hitches from Arthur’s throat. He’s a grown man, a couple kind words shouldn’t rip him open like this.  
  
“I need you strong, Arthur.” Dutch murmurs, then sighs and turns away, his touch leaving, fanning the flames of the anguish and loneliness in Arthur’s soul.  
  
“Go to sleep, Art,” Dutch says before going to sit at his desk.  
  
The man’s command swallows Arthur into darkness, though he doesn’t recall closing his eyes.  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  
John’s fever breaks before Arthur wakes, so quick, it’s practically a miracle. They reconcile enough that Arthur doesn’t feel as guilty.  
  
Dutch finds excuses to stay constantly at Arthur’s side. Cracking stupid jokes and going out of his way to drag the smallest smiles out of Arthur.  
  
Eventually, his mind doesn’t jump to it, hourly, or even daily. He can look at a gun without the urge to…  
  
And when nightmares plague him, his fingertips trace the scar between his collarbones.  


 

    

**Author's Note:**

> catch me @gwennolmarie on tumblr if you'd like to yell and/or throw fic ideas at me


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